


Must We?

by Hel be praised (Silvertounge)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 07:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvertounge/pseuds/Hel%20be%20praised
Summary: Taking place before the events of Man from UNCLE, Solo is a spy captured in the middle of Moscow.





	Must We?

**Author's Note:**

> Just to let everyone know I’ve written Ilya with one L in deference to Russian. From what I’ve seen Ilya is spelled Илья which when romanized should be with one L. The tag is spelled with two Ls so that it’s easier for people to search.

Ilya watched rather despondently as they dragged Solo into an interrogation room roughly. A bruise was already blooming high up on his cheek; blood oozed out of a split lip that reopened every time he mockingly smiled up at the agents surrounding him. Even though Ilya had known from the beginning that the man across the glass from him was an American spy, the fact that he had gotten caught was sobering.

Just the other night he’d been sitting in Ilya’s apartment drunkenly lecturing him about the current failings of communism. He’d looked up at Ilya, and laughed too gleefully for a grown man, dodging Ilya’s hands when he sought to “punish” Solo for his words.

He regretted that one mistake would lead Solo to his death.

They’d stripped him of anything that could be considered a weapon, taken his shoes to keep him from running out into the snowy city, and had left him in only a thin shirt, wrinkled tie, and the plain pants he had worn to work that day.

Ilya watched with a misplaced sense of pride as Solo deflected all his comrades’ questions, laughing openly at their frustration every time they hit him; he tapped his bleeding fingers on the table to make them regret leaving him hands-free.

He should feel no pride for the Cowboy’s deception, only stewing anger at the affront to his country. When it came to this man Ilya had already decided that Russia had taken too much from him, why muster up a sense of anger he didn’t really feel?

There were only five of them in the building today, everyone else was extra personnel. Every single KGB agent there was crowded around the two-way mirror; watching as the American “bastard” who had fooled them, and their superiors received what they felt to be his due.

 Ilya listened with half an ear as they laughed about how easy this job would be, internally frowning at the fact that they had left Solo unbound, not liking the calculating glint in Solo’s steely eyes.

He’d argued enough with him to know that this Cowboy had more spirit than sense.

Solo made a movement, Ilya barely saw it from the corner of his eye, it almost looked like he was going to straighten his tie.

Suddenly a gleaming piece of metal was buried in his comrade’s neck, bright red blood spraying across Solo’s harsh face. He pulled whatever it was out quickly, stabbing at the man again, this time in the chest, kicking the chair into the uninjured man’s legs only to take the object and stab it deep into his left eye.

The fallen man’s dying scream of agony could be heard clearly in the other room.

For a moment, everything was still. Then everyone burst into action, three of the other men running out of the room to stop Solo as Ilya watched him calmly disarm one of the bodies and load the pilfered gun.

The idiots he worked with would run into that room one by one, making themselves easy targets for Solo’s aim.

The first man fell to a single, well-placed bullet. His body was tugged roughly off the floor, pulled against Solo’s body in a macabre human shield. Blood smeared across his suit, dirtying the crisp colors Solo was so fond of. Throughout the entire attack, his face never changed, there was no fear, no worry, only steely determination and cold detachment.

In the end, Solo stood untouched in a room littered with bodies. Ilya stayed at the mirror, arms crossed, finger tapping a slow rhythm against his bicep. There was no alarm to be rung, no videotapes to monitor what was happening.              

As far as the world outside was concerned nothing unordinary had happened inside this building. The secret police liked to keep their work too secret it seemed. 

Solo moved leisurely, walking out the door calmly. Ilya watched for a few seconds as Solo made his way to the closed door. Ilya walked out slowly, his hand finding the gun resting peacefully in its holster.

“стой.” (Stop.)

Solo didn’t freeze so much as pause, the tense muscles of his shoulders relaxing down, he unwound his body until it was malleable. He was prepared to fight, even if he didn’t look like it.

“Let’s not do this Ilya.”

Solo had never, even drunk, spoken English to him. The soft vowels and consonants of his native language changed his voice in some ways. He was soft-spoken in Russian, harsh sounds somehow mellowing on his tongue, but his English was practically languid; just the right amount of lazy and intense.  

“Думаю, мы должны.” (I think we must.)

“Must we?” He turned away from the door, the drying blood across his face ghastly in the dim fluorescent light, his skin looked deathly pale against the streak of color marring the smooth expanse of his face.

“Да.” (Yes.)

The gun resting in Solo’s hand moved slowly, shifting into a better position to be used. A weapon as opposed to a tool.

“I have absolutely no desire to hurt you Ilya. You’ve never done me any wrong,” he held his arms out, a faint smile etched on his mouth, “what’s the point in trying anyway? I’ve already sent all the information I got to my contact, killing me won’t stop the information from getting out.”

“Maybe will make me feel better Cowboy.”

A low sigh escaped him, reminding Ilya of all the times he’d longed to touch but held back. How small Solo seemed standing next to him, and how much of a stranger Solo seemed now standing before him wearing his comrades’ blood like a curse.

Solo tapped the gun against the side of his leg, shoulders beginning to tense up again.

“You’d walk out of this without any problems Ilya. You have nothing to gain from me killing you.”

]“You’re so sure you could kill me?”

“I have a gun in a straight hallway. I’m more than familiar with this weapon, I know I can kill you.” He sighed again, free hand reaching behind him slowly to grasp at the door handle, “Just let me go Ilya. We don’t need to do this.”

He had been trained, since childhood, to fight and sacrifice for the good of Russia. For the good of the Kremlin, for the good of the government. Compassion and empathy were systematically stripped from him until a hollow shell of a human being stood where once a Child his mother called Ilyusha was.

Solo had let Ilya kiss him once. Walking home with Solo in the dark of a frigid winter night. Bundled in furs and coats against a stinging wind. It had been a horrible risk, he’d pulled Solo into an alley in the middle of Moscow tired of how the other man made him burn like fire even amid a Russian winter.

Those jade colored eyes had watched eagerly as Ilya leaned down and placed a kiss as fragile as the snow around them on Solo’s icy lips. Solo had let Ilya put his hands, calloused from guns, stained red from murder, inside his coat to hold Solo securely at his waist as his lips sipped across his; tongue daring to find Solo’s.

They’d stayed out in the cold, learning the shape of each other’s mouth, feeling the heat of their breath, all the while knowing that at any moment someone could walk by and catch them in something much worse than an illicit embrace.  

That night in a dim alley was the first time Ilya had felt truly human in a long time. Looking at Solo now, whatever that night was, Ilya knew that at least in that moment Solo hadn’t been acting.

Ilya turned his back abruptly, striding toward the room they’d held Solo in, “Иди.” (Go.)

The door opened silently and closed softly.

There was no regret. No real feeling of anything as Solo slipped away. Ilya surveyed the room with a detached sigh, blue eyes stopping suddenly on a small gleam of metal shining through puddles of drying blood.

On the floor, was Solo’s tie clip. The metal end sharpened down to a deadly point that had been easily hidden by the front of his gaudy tie.  

A short bark of laughter escaped Ilya, he picked it up slowly, wiping it on a dead man’s shirt before putting it in his pocket. No need to shame the dead further, if he kept the tie clip no one needed to know.

Maybe one day Ilya would be able to give it back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3  
> My Russian is negligible at best if there's any really glaring issue with what I have there please let me know and I'll correct it.
> 
>  Hello all!  
> If anyone is interested, check out my tumblr https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thesunwillneverrisehere. I post alot of stories and commissions there as well.


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